


Chemotaxonomy

by lumofox



Category: Tokyo Mew Mew
Genre: Future Fic, time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumofox/pseuds/lumofox
Summary: Following the destruction of Deep Blue, their leader in conquest, a new strategist emerges to lead the charge and take back the Blue Planet as is rightfully theirs. No longer will they struggle to establish ecosystems from scratch on a planet where none were meant to thrive. No longer will they be forced below the surface to shelter from storms. No longer will they face possible catastrophe from tectonic movements that send their structures crashing down around them.The inhabitants of Earth take for granted the beautiful planet they have inherited from their ancient ancestors. Deep Blue’s death was merely a setback in this righteous crusade for what their people are due. Too long they have struggled and perished against the unforgiving rock of their new planet. Too long they have hungered when resources were low.The time to act is now.--This is a long story. Focus is on all characters. There are a number of secondary OCs as necessary and logical to fill reasonable gaps. Previously titled "Invoking My Pledge" before the rewrite.





	1. Zakuro

**Author's Note:**

> The alien species start to rebuild their society on their new home planet after the agents return with the miraculous Mew Aqua from the Blue Planet; however, not all their people are content to build on the wrecked planet their species fled to long ago while the Blue Planet prospers. Following the destruction of Deep Blue, their leader in conquest, a new strategist emerges to lead the charge and take back the Blue Planet as is rightfully theirs. No longer will they struggle to establish ecosystems from scratch on a planet where none were meant to thrive. No longer will they be forced below the surface to shelter from storms. No longer will they face possible catastrophe from tectonic movements that send their structures crashing down around them.  
> The inhabitants of Earth take for granted the beautiful planet they have inherited from their ancient ancestors. Deep Blue’s death was merely a setback in this righteous crusade for what their people are due. Too long they have struggled and perished against the unforgiving rock of their new planet. Too long they have hungered when resources were low.  
> The time to act is now.
> 
> Note: Note: Merriam-Webster defines chemotaxonomy as “the classification of plants and animals based on similarities and differences in biochemical composition. ["Chemotaxonomy." Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 11 Sept. 2017.]

Section I

.part one.

incoming message—9:20:56 UTC

_I feel I need to do something. We’ve hunted whales for more than 5000 years, but the whaling industry got so out of control we passed international rules and legal protections to regulate whale killings. Even so, commercial whaling hasn’t completely stopped. On top of that, with the progression of climate change and the upset of migration routes, whales are in serious need of help. We have a responsibility to help our fellow species and I am more than willing to stand up for the cause._

outgoing message—9:23:09 UTC

_I think your commitment is noble. I am just warning you that not everyone will see it this way. I do not doubt you know what you are doing._

*

The actress was difficult to read on a good day. The young woman revealed little on her face, and though she would not hesitate to speak her mind when the moment called for it, she mostly kept her opinions to herself. She channeled an expressive, outgoing personality in front of the camera, but her true nature was entirely different. Her most devoted fan base would likely not recognize her if they ran into her on the street or in a shop. Her chilly demeanor off the screen was solemn and intimidating. She did not make friends easily, nor did she have much interest in the social events her manager set up for her. She only attended out of obligation. She could easily fake a smile and feign an interest if something were required for her job.

She trusted few people and formed friendships with still fewer. Most acquaintances saw her as means to promote themselves with her fame. Many resented her success as though her true personality made her unworthy of the rewards for her hard work. Their pettiness was not worth her time or concern. She never actively chose to be a lone wolf, though she supposed she never put in too much effort to get close to others. If the friendships were meant to happen, they would naturally occur, in her opinion. They could not be faked. What was the point of having friend if she had to play a role to be around them? She would rather be alone.

The director yelled about the placement of set pieces. The actress hated working with directors who were quick to yell. Patience was the key to getting others to like you and do what you wanted. A director who did not understand productions were a product of everyone’s labors—not just one person’s vision—was not a pleasant director to work with. However, she supposed she would simply need to tolerate the director’s temper. After all, she sat in a rickety set chair while an artist erased her face under layers of heavy stage makeup with no one to blame for the situation but herself.  

Typically, she would not take a role for this kind of production. If the job were based in Japan, she might entertain the idea to break up her regular routine, but that was home, and the deserts of Nevada were not. She traveled across the Pacific to take this supporting role for a second-rate, unknown, breakout director that never really thought she would accept the offer. They were flabbergasted when she turned up unannounced to the auditions. No one could explain why a famous idol like Zakuro Fujiwara would go so far for the role. For the actress the answer was simple: she needed to get out of Japan for a while, needed new scenery that could distract her from haunting memories. Her gut instincts kept her on high alert navigating the city of Tokyo, waiting for a call to arms to fight a new threat. She was anxious, tense, anticipating the worst around every corner. She saw flashes of buildings in shambles, heard screams of victims she wouldn’t reach in time to save from injury. She was always alert and ready to pounce into a new battle. It made her ill to her stomach and she had to get away.

Things were ok for some time while she still worked in the park café in Tokyo during her off hours. She thought it funny how she looked forward to her shift at the café even after her busy day schedule, especially given her initial reluctance to moonlight as a waitress with a team forced together by happenstance. She was not like the other girls who worked at the café. She was older and had not grown up in a world like theirs. At the beginning, their involvement with the Mew Project was the only common factor among the café employees.

The owners of the café started plans to initiate the Mew Project many years before they implemented it. Keiichiro Akasaka and Ryou Shirogane – scientists turned bakers – tested the experiment before they initiated the project, which was perhaps the only saving grace of the plan. Of the two, only Ryou possessed the correct genome makeup to be affected by the experiment, and so he volunteered as guinea pig to test the project on human specimen. The scientists deemed the test a success and broadened their scope to find others who would be similarly suitable for the experiment. When they discovered the girls genetic matches, the two scientists initiated the Mew Project without a moment’s hesitation. Ethically speaking, the men should have been thrown in jail for unauthorized human experimentation, on minors no less! but the ends in this instance justified the means.

Keiichiro and Ryou pulled the girls into their fight and acted as the girls’ guides throughout their mission. The project involved the infusion of specific animal genomes into the human DNA structure through a short blast of radioactive energy. The DNA mutation process would only affect those with compatible DNA sequences, resulting in the creation of a small targeted team. It would be difficult to defend the dubious nature of the men’s project if it’s objective were anything short of the protection of the planet from forces set upon wiping the human race from existence. As such, no one ever looked too deeply into how the super-human team of young people who called themselves Tokyo Mew Mew came into being. There were many speculations that they were aliens like the enemy they set out to fight, using the Earth as a battleground to wage their war, or perhaps spirits tasked to defend the planet from devastation. Most speculative theories were laughable.

The designated leader of the team was a middle schooler names Ichigo Momomiya who worried about her boyfriend more than her own future. She was the first to show signs from Keiichiro and Ryou’s DNA manipulation. Ichigo’s DNA fused with that of the Iriomote Cat – a leopard cat exclusive to the Japanese island or Iriomote, about the size of a domestic cat. The mutation enabled Ichigo to transform into Mew Strawberry – a fighter dressed in a pink jumper dress with black cat ears and tail. She adopted the cat’s gifts of balance, agility, and speed, though she also inherited the species’ primarily nocturnal tendencies.

Next in line was a rich ballerina named Mint Aizawa who slacked chronically on her work and stubbornly resisted her fighting role as part of the team for a long time. Mint’s DNA fused with that of the Blue Lorikeet – a small, blue bird from French Polynesia and the Cook Islands. The mutation enabled Mint to transform into Mew Mint – a fighter in a blue leotard with a small pair of blue bird wings that allowed her to fly. She incorporated the bird’s speed and agility with her grace as a dancer to become a strong adversary in the sky.

Third was a kind, quiet high schooler named Lettuce Midorikawa who preferred the quiet of the library to standing in the spotlight. Lettuce’s DNA fused with that of the Finless Porpoise – a sea mammal found mostly in the Korean peninsula and the Yellow and East China Seas. Her mutation enabled Lettuce to transform into Mew Lettuce – a fighter in a green bathing suit with the ability to swim expertly, hold her breath underwater for extended periods, and fuse her legs together into a powerful tail. Lettuce utilized her personal predisposition for peaceful conflict resolution alongside her fighting abilities during battles.

The youngest of the team was an unfalteringly energetic kid named Pudding Fong who smiled through any hardship, but whose eyes betrayed a tough life as head of house at far too young. Pudding’s DNA fused with that of the Golden Tamarin Monkey – a small New World monkey native to the coastal forests of Brazil that got its name from the bright reddish orange extra-long fur around its face and ears. The mutation enabled Pudding to transform into Mew Pudding – a fighter dressed in a yellow and orange gymnast’s outfit with monkey ears and tail. They possessed the fantastic and largely inexplicable ability to see the best in others, even enemies, and their powers to immobilize enemies on the field matched that personal trait well.

Lastly came the actress herself, a child star for her looks who hid a dark past with her family and the harsh realities of show business behind superficial smiles. Her DNA fused with that of the American Grey Wolf – a specialized member of the _canis_ genus with morphological adaptations to hunt large prey, a gregarious nature, and highly advanced expressive behavior. The mutation enabled Zakuro to transform into Mew Pomegranate – a mysterious fighter dressed in a purple crop top, hot pants, and tall boots. She utilized the wolf’s canine-sharp perceptive senses and a trick ability to jump dimensional plane with a flick of her wrist.

Such a mishmash team was anything but likely to function. Yet, despite their many differences, the team connected with one another. Zakuro felt happy when the rest of the team was happy. She smiled at their antics – real smiles she could _feel_. She acted like a mentor when it was necessary, a guide, half-convincing herself of the advice she gave the others, coming to accept her own responsibilities in the fight as she helped the others recognize their potentials. Whether or not she had asked to join, Zakuro was a member of the team, and the team was vitally important in the protection of the Earth. She needed to rise to the occasion or to quit, so she chose to rise. Her determination convinced Mint to fight when she lost sight of her importance, when she lost hope. Saying the words convinced Zakuro too. Each member of the team was crucial and important to the fight. Each of them was making a difference. They had a purpose. They protected their species. They protected the Earth. They would win the battle in the end, and so they would have to hold tight to their hope. The tunnel had golden light at the end if they could only reach it.

For the first time in her life, Zakuro found a place she truly belonged. The team accepted her for who she was personally, not for who she used to be, who she pretended to be on the screen, or what she could bring them in monetary value. The team wanted her as she was. They made it through the fight together, each supporting the rest right to the bitter end. The team kept working for the café even after the battle had been won because they enjoyed each other’s company, and though the café was intended to be only a cover for their true operations, it had become very popular in Tokyo for its cakes and tea and cute waitresses. It was a safe space. They were a chosen family, a pack, but as all things, it did not last.

The change in the group began slowly and then happened all at once. Ichigo and her boyfriend packed for England to participate in a program to study environmental sciences and species conservations, largely focusing on protection. Mint got in to an elite, renowned school of ballet in France as had always been her dream. Lettuce pulled away from the café gradually as she focused more seriously on her classes and exams, her eyes set on university. Pudding’s father returned from his long training in China, occupying most of Pudding’s time, energy, and attention after being away for so long. Even Keiichiro and Ryou shifted focus from extraterrestrial threats to human-made damage, eventually shutting down the café to pursue their other interests and spend time in the field. They all began to move on with their lives, leaving their time as Earth’s defenders in the past. The actress tried to stay in touch, but as they became busier, communication dwindled until it stopped altogether. 

The city of Tokyo made the actress sad. Before long everything was once again flashing lights and masks like it was before she joined the Mews. Everything was fake. Fabricated. An act. So, like her friends, she too moved forward with her life, accepting jobs that kept her busy, always looking for anything to get her out of Japan, even dingy little roles for second-rate producers and unknown directors looking to jumpstart their careers.

In the public eye, she suffocated. The media kept on top of her whenever she had work. She was on camera more than she was off camera. Her manager pushed her aggressively to take on role after role, interview after interview. He got it in his head to make her a known name worldwide. His motivation had nothing to do with her. He was interested in being the name known for making her into the star she would be. So, she played her part in his scheme, donned her professional mask. She sometimes wondered when she had created Zakuro Fujiwara, the idol. Where did that woman come from? The personality was contradiction. The idol was her, but not her. The idol was the glamorized, exaggerated, good parts of her personality that she might very well have willed into being out of pure necessity. Quickly, she grew cold, uncaring, and bitter beneath the smiling mask. She had no friends any longer who knew her beyond the idol façade she fabricated. She was trapped in her mask without breathing room to lower it even a minute.

Around that time, the actress met Yuki Takoma.

She first met him as she arrived for a meeting in the agency office building with her then-manager. She entered the foyer, but did not know where the meeting would be held or how to get there. Her manager was nowhere in sight, nor any representative of the agency come to collect her. She must have arrived earlier than she planned. There was a small office off the foyer, the door ajar. She thought to inquire there. The name plate beside the door read in thick black type: MR. YURI TAKAMA – a typo he never worked to correct. Inside, behind the desk sat a man with thinning hair, more gray than black. He slumped slightly in his chair, pulling at his thinning hair by the fistful with desperate hands. Before she could stop herself, Zakuro invaded his office space, forgetting her idol mask in the doorway. It took him only a moment to recognize her. He hurried to make himself presentable, to apologize for bothering her with trivial matters, and for allowing himself to present so poorly. He hurried to find her information and direct her to her meeting. Zakuro watched in amazement as the efficient man worked. Initially, he hardly seemed the type who could handle the stress of filing paperwork much less working in a front-end office for an acting agency, but quickly proved himself more than capable for the job. As she proceeded to find the meeting a few floors above as per the man’s instructions, the actress glanced back to see the man had reassumed his crisis posture. He looked frustrated, like someone whose potential was wasted behind a desk. She entered the elevator, the door sliding smoothly shut before her. In her final peek at the man, he had adopted a noble appearance as he jotted down a note.

That day Zakuro fired her manager. He was too aggressive, worked her too hard. She needed a break, a fresh start. There was a point where distracting oneself from reality through work started to take its toll on the individual, and her manager pushed her beyond that point. The agency would not lose her business. They received a cut in royalties from every performance and appearance, every role or reality show she took. She brought in money which gave her some sway to be choosey. She made demands and they tried to meet them within reason. She was clear beyond a doubt that she wanted a new manager. Someone real, not a mask who viewed her only as means to a larger paycheck. She wanted someone who understood she was a person and needed breaks just like anyone else. She wanted someone who sympathized with the pressure she was under. Someone who did not hold themselves aloof from the stress of being in show business, looking down on her like an unpleasant God because she could not handle it as gracefully. Someone capable and who understood the balancing act she lived in. She wanted someone like the graying man who pulled out his hair in the building’s front office; someone in touch with the anxiety and stress she felt moving around Tokyo; someone who understood how she needed to put on her personality to get things done efficiently.

The assistant director of the agency laughed out loud on hearing the actress’ request for the man from the front office. She laughed until she realized the young woman was not joking with her request. Takoma was reassigned by the end of the day.

 

The director yelled at a lighting crew member, jarring the actress from her thoughts. She shifted her attention from the makeup mirror to the stage area. The director was gesturing angrily, and the crewmember gestured right back. She sighed. The director was quickly becoming intolerable. She had already sent her manager after the man once to comment on his anger. Takoma still looked a little shell shocked from the experience. He stood off to the side in the shadows of the stage, arms crossed. He stood close enough that he could be right by her side in a moment if necessary. Takoma met her eye and jumped to attention. Sure enough, he was by her side instantly, leaning down to discuss her discomfort. He must have noticed a tell on her face to suggest her sour mood. She was rather difficult to read normally, but Takoma was a man who paid close attention to details. He never seemed to have much trouble knowing what she thought.

“I can speak with the director again, though I sense his mood isn’t the only thing bothering you,” Takoma whispered to her softly. She appreciated his quiet nature as opposed to that of his loud and forceful predecessor. Her lips twitched at the edges as she inclined her head towards his, not quite facing him directly. His arms were crossed over his chest. His right hand pet minutely at his left bicep as if to reassure himself. She touched his forearm with her knuckles and the motion stopped abruptly. She leaned closer to hiss a whisper in return, rather conspiratorial.

“I’m feeling a change of scenery would be nice. Perhaps I should take a walk?”

Takoma met her eyes again, searching for her meaning. He sighed as though defeated, closing his eyes as he straightened his back again. The director yelled for actors to take their places. She did not move. She was not the lead role. They did not absolutely need her to finish the filming for today. Her role could be finished tomorrow without much of a hiccup in the production of the director’s movie. She scratched absently at her makeup mask, smearing the careful job that hid her natural features. The director yelled at an extra as they took to the set.

“Yes, I think I will take one now.”

She easily stripped out of her loose costume, grabbing her street clothes from nearby. She pulled on a pair of fitted jeans, slipping into her regular shoes as she made for the exit. The dark plum shirt was barely yanked down over her torso before she was out the door into the studio lobby. Takoma pet his arm again. He learned since becoming her manager that she was not one to hesitate once she decided on an action. This would not be the first time she walked out on a day’s filming, nor likely her last. He ran a hand through his graying hair, noting how much more it had thinned just in the time since he agreed to be her manager and relinquish his desk job with the agency. He could not reject a personal request to be a star’s manager when she requested him by name in the same day they met. Though he quickly learned she was not the same person in private as the public eye, Takoma was not unhappy in his work with her. It was stressful work, and he may have chosen the wrong career path, but he was not unhappy. Besides, he hated the desk job and the actress’ impulsive actions kept things interesting.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Director, but another of Miss Fujiwara’s projects requires her attention today and so we will be taking our leave,” Takoma called in return to the director’s shout for the actress to come on stage. He spoke with calm, careful conviction. “I will ensure we arrive tomorrow in time to begin shooting. Thank you.”

As he followed the actress out, the loud sounds from the set suggested the director upset a table or chair. Or both. Takoma did not look forward to the phone call he would surely receive from the production team. Zakuro could be a handful when the mood struck her. However, she was not easily influenced by others advice or opinion. She reached her own conclusions and acted accordingly. Without a particularly strong case, she could not be easily swayed from her decisions. Takoma learned it easier to roll with her choices and control the damage than to try to hold her to a different course.

The sky outside was clear, the weather pleasant, though hot already so early in the Spring. Takoma shook open a pair of shades, protecting his eyes from both the sun and curious onlookers who might recognize him as a manager. Zakuro stood close to the exit door, her purple shades securely in place. Her hip was cocked slightly to the side as she examined her cellphone screen intently. Takoma waited for her to speak first, a tactic he usually found successful in urging her to explain her actions more fully.

“I’ll make it up to you, Takoma,” Zakuro promised as she scrolled through options on her phone screen. She tilted her head to glance at him sideways. Her shocking eyes peeked at him from behind the tint of her shades. On anyone else the expression and posture might be construed as playful or flirtatious. On Zakuro, it was sharp and calculating. She straightened up, popping some joints in her back before turning her phone screen to him. “There’s a few small coffee shops nearby.”

 

Zakuro studied her managers face as she stirred objectively too much sugar into a cup of coffee she ordered for him at the corner café. Takoma slouched in his chair, head leaning back, neck craned over the back of the seat. He pressed the inside of his elbow over his eyes and sat perfectly motionless. He could already hear the loud and angry complaints he would have to handle when the director and producers would surely call later. She was not required to hang around the set once her filming for the day was complete, but as she was already prepared for another scene when she decided to walk, they would surely be annoyed. As her manager, the responsibility to ensure she behaved during a session fell fully to him. The situation would also be different if it were the first time Zakuro had decided to cut her filming day short. Now, her behavior just suggested he had little control over her. 

Takoma pulled his arm away from his face and forced himself to sit upright again. He accepted the sweetened coffee Zakuro slid across the table. He sighed before taking a long sip of the drink. The actress watched him carefully as his face pulled into a slightly unpleasant curl. _Too much sugar_? He replaced the cup on the tabletop, turning his tired eyes on her again. The large bags beneath Takoma’s eyes always made him look much older. Zakuro held his gaze from behind her purple sunglasses. Not breaking eye contact, Takoma reached for the sugar dish, adding a few more spoonfuls. _Not enough sugar_. Zakuro’s lips twitched in amusement. Takoma took another sip, leaning back again in his chair.

As the rim of the cup lowered again, Takoma’s tired eyes bore into hers. He didn’t need to speak for his question to be clear. Zakuro sighed, looking down at her own cup of coffee. She stirred the contents, buying for time. She wondered sometimes how much of her thoughts she could share with her manager. How much would be revealing too much about her life and her secrets? How much did he already know? Takoma could always read her thoughts easily. It was difficult to judge how much she could share or how much he knew, and it was dangerous to inquire. Zakuro considered many times revealing some of her larger secrets to Takoma. She entertained the idea of explaining the odd mark around her bellybutton, describing in general terms what happened to her when she was still a teenager. She trusted him with the information. At least, she thought she did, though clearly not enough to carry through with a proper disclosure. The possibility of an accidental revelation on her secret was also not impossible, though no such occasion had arisen yet. It would be better to explain the situation to Takoma before an accident of that sort, but her tongue resisted the words.

It was silly, Zakuro thought, to worry about her mutation when the topic at hand was her pattern of flaky behavior when it came to the filming for this production she herself had chosen. Yet, when Takoma looked to her for an explanation, Zakuro’s first inclination was to come clean about her past. Perhaps it had to do with the nagging feeling in her gut that any day now, she would be called to arms once more. She had hoped leaving Japan would resolve the feeling, but unfortunately, it seemed to grow daily. Maybe that was part of the reason she started misbehaving on set. She built a pattern of mood-riven walk outs in the case she needed to leave and rush into battle. It would not stand out as odd behavior if she regularly walked out on filming days. But she could not provide Takoma with an explanation of that sort without first explaining why Zakuro Fujiwara—actor, model, and career idol—would be called upon to fight in the first place.  Takoma would recognize her transformation instantly, of course. After all, everyone in Japan had seen the skilled team of superheroines who fought off the monster chimeras five years back. However, knowing of the team was different than knowing who truly acted on the team, and Zakuro could not be sure of Takoma’s reaction. She also could not say what reaction she thought would really be the best.

“I don’t like the director,” Zakuro stated bluntly without inflection in her voice. She grit her teeth slightly, the guilty knowing in her gut spiking as Takoma took a deep breath. To his merit, he did not roll his eyes. It was not the reason she wanted to claim for her behavior. The way his weight settled in the chair tipped her off to his suspicion. He had seen something in her eyes, on her face, in her demeanor. He knew she was hiding something. He always knew she was hiding something, but he never pressed her on it. It was a fact that always tugged at the back of her mind. Zakuro turned her eyes away, staring intently into her cup, innocently fiddling with handle. Takoma still said nothing, taking a slow sip from his coffee, and giving her an opportunity to explain herself properly. Zakuro made no move to do so, her options still arguing in her mind. It was not uncommon for Zakuro and Takoma to sit in standoff like this for some minutes. As always, Takoma new he would be the first to break the silence. After all, his curiosity would get the better of him. Besides, it was part of his job to entertain the actress’ fancy.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Takoma conceded, carefully placing his coffee cup back on the table between them. He fixed the actress with his tired gaze again before he continued. Even though she did not look up from her drink, Zakuro could feel his eyes focus on her, trying to see past her skull and examine her brain, her intentions. She let a small smile slip onto her face. That’s what she liked most about Takoma: he never acted as though he would not one day crack her open. Zakuro could believe it. One day he would see past her shields. One day she would share her secrets with him. But today was not that day. “You normally put up with snippy directors like him, no matter how rude. What is it about this one in particular you can’t tolerate?”

Zakuro shrugged minutely, picking up her cup and taking a sip. Her deep purple eyes—enhanced by the purple tint of her sunglasses—flicked to Takoma over the rim of her cup. Her eyes were bright, and they could surely sway any impressionable person. Takoma was not one such person. Zakuro rolled her eyes, replacing her cup on the table in front of her. She tossed her silky hair, focusing on something across the shop rather than look into the eyes of the man seated across from her.  She could never look at him when she lied. “I regret taking this role.” 

Takoma was silent for a moment, waiting for the actress to continue, but no further explanation was forthcoming. It appeared he had lost her attention, but he could still discern the way her brow creased ever so slightly between her sculpted eyebrows. She had something more on her mind, but he would not push. He never did. She would tell him in due time if it were anything he needed to know. He finished off his coffee, considering their next move. She would have to complete the film to get paid as per her contract with the production team. The final filming would only take a week to finish at most with minimal interruptions. At the moment, she did not have another job lined up to follow. Usually, Takoma would take this time nearing the end of a job to set up her next appearance or role. Truth be told, he had indeed already started looking at the openings available, compiling a list of jobs he thought she might be interested in. Now, however, Takoma wondered if the best next move would be to take a bit of a break. Zakuro had been working hard. She almost had no down time between her responsibilities, even though he was careful to avoid packing her schedule as her previous manager would. Zakuro needed a vacation. Zakuro deserved a break after putting up with the director of this production for as long as she had. Just a short one, long enough to relax, but short enough the actress wouldn’t complain. Maybe they would just take a detour heading home.

*

outgoing message—5:43:29 UTC

_I read an article recently that made me think about you. The article focuses on the North American Right Whale, and it said thirteen of these whales have died this year out of an estimated population of only four thousand and fifty. Researchers suspect a few were hit by ships, some were caught in fishing gear, while the cause of death for others is still unknown._

incoming message—5:44:15 UTC

_I think I read the same article. Not my section of the world, but it’s still unfortunate and I hope more is done to step up protections before the species becomes extinct. I’m not certain how I could help from over here, but if you hear anything, I’d love to get involved._

outgoing message—5:44:52 UTC

_I will keep an ear out for any information._

*

Words—5.504


	2. Mint

**.part two.**

incoming message—11:20:24 UTC

_Have you heard about new efforts to cultivate seaweed to replace fossil fuels?_

outgoing message—11:20:40 UTC

_I have not._

incoming message—11:20:58 UTC

_The goal is to establish a biofuel source that doesn’t use food crops, like corn or sugar, which drive up global prices. Biofuel production uses up freshwater and can produce more CO2 than diesel. Seaweed doesn’t have the same problems. It helps clean up pollution from fish farms and it grows faster than land plants. It also photosynthesizes five time more efficiently than land plants!_

outgoing message—11:21:04 UTC

_That would be great if we can figure out how to make it into usable biofuel. Cars already run on biodiesels from land crops, so the transition to aquatic energy sources should be easy enough to work out._

*

Some days, the theater felt like home with all its glamour and glitz. She belonged there. She had worked her whole life to reach the stage and could finally enjoy the rewards of her struggle. Other days, she felt she lost home when she left Tokyo. If she stayed in Japan instead of fleeing to Paris to study ballet, maybe she would still understand exactly what home felt like. She did not know for certain she knew what home felt like in Tokyo—an empty house too large for her alone, waiting on family who never came to dinner or asked how her day had been—but she had a feeling she grasped the concept more fully than she did here. Maybe if she had properly known what home was supposed to feel like in the first place she would not be so confused now. She never thought her empty house fully fit the description of home as it was supposed to be, and yet, she missed it like a home. Maybe if she could determine exactly what it was that she had in that empty house that she was lacking now that would be enough. Maybe then she would be more confident in her abilities, her talents, and her decisions. Maybe then she would not beat down the unshakable urge to fly away from her life and her worries. Maybe then she would not drown her wings in nutrition shakes and theater gossip. She felt like a bird torn between waiting out the winter and flying further South, and try as she might to shake the foreboding in her gut, she felt her decision point was fast approaching.

Despite her uncertainties, Mint Aizawa knew one thing for certain: the thin, painted face hat watched her apprehensively from the other side of the mirror was not the ballerina she had always hoped to become.  Somewhere along the way, she allowed herself to become something constructed by her instructors instead of maintaining her own dreams. Her instructors drilled into her head that a potential future in ballet was more important than everything else. Even physical and mental well-being came second to the perfection of the dance routine.  Already, she gave into the pressures and demands from her instructors to conform herself regardless of injury. Her body was her medium, a consumable good she trained to handle the repeated stresses her dance routines inflicted. She tightened laces and bandages and supports to ensure she could push her body further and longer than it could probably take. The competition was high to score significant roles in the troupe’s productions. Even as a background dancer pristine balance, perfection, and body image were required by instructors and expected by audiences.

While Mint had always been naturally thin and healthy, never seriously needing concern herself with weight management, the narrative backstage inspired anxiety over her size all the same. The perfected skill worthy of acknowledgement is reflected in the perfect body. No one bought tickets to watch chunky girls lumber clumsily across the stage. A ballerina with a more petite figure would get better roles in the shows. Like the rest of the troupe, Mint quickly learned the tricks of the trade to stand out from the rest in the right way. She cut down her meals, only eating when she absolutely needed to. She watched her intake, controlled her hunger, and sure enough, she was cast for a named character in the troupe’s production of _le Casse-Noisette_. It was her reward, and it reinforced t message in her mind. Mint had never fully realized the power of weight in the theater even after so many years dancing. Her realization was the first step in a steep downward spiral. She had watched her fellow dancers slip down the same slope, but it was hard to resist, and she stubbornly convinced herself she was more aware, more cautious, more controlled than them. Surely, she would not end up in the same ruin as they had. It was an easy lie to digest.

Mint found the pull of the downward spiral an unstoppable force. Maybe if she were stronger, more confident, more certain what home felt like, she could stop herself before the pull became overpowering. On the other hand, she suspected she had already passed the point of no return. She fell hopelessly into a culture she had before only glimpsed. Fellow ballerinas shared tips and critiques with her, helping to guide her to further control her body, as so desperately required for the job. Some may have identified it as a sick obsession right from the start, the way she counted calories, sometimes skipped even liquid meals, and purged any missteps, but at the beginning she could only see the success, the rewards for her control. By the time she recognized it for what it truly was, the habit had set, and she could not easily shake it. Mint entered a social circle where her obsession was not odd or uncommon. She listened to their poison and shared their gossip—who gained a little extra, who went for seconds at mealtime, who got discovered. The troupe demanded perfect balance in performances, and the dancers achieved perfect balance—cut out enough to maintain control, to get the part, but not so much as to become weak or warrant intervention. If you were caught, you would be kicked off the troupe. The instructors called it a “vacation” to heal up. In practice, no one who left on “vacation” ever came back.

As she ate less, Mint grew thinner. When she got thinner, her friends complimented her, she could land significant roles on stage. If she grew too thin, her friends scorned her, and the instructors would take her out of the spotlight, pay a little more attention to her eating habits. It was a careful balancing act, but she was in control. She could handle it. Mint worked with her friends, pushing then and being pushed in return to do more, be more disciplined, turn her body into a tool. Those friends were also her competition. She needed to be thinner, better, more poised, more controlled than her friends and the rest of the troupe too. Then, she would get re named roles, more significant roles. Then, she would set up an assured future on the stage like she always dreamed. Discipline was how you got ahead in this business, and Mint’s discipline was the best.

It was an intoxicating state of mind.

Yet, her success was not the success she dreamed of obtaining. Mint wanted to be recognized for her own skills, not a false image. She always admired the idol Zakuro Fujiwara who had won her fame through hard work and natural talent. Zakuro promoted the message that a successful star cared for their body and nourished it properly to keep performing. Mint wondered as she gazed into her own mirrored blue yes what Zakuro would see of her now beneath the paint.  She was a shadow of her former self, a painted mannequin, a wind-up doll to complacently follow the troupe’s orders.

She used to be a warrior, light and agile. Now her very bones ached from the repeated stress she subjected them to. She no longer flew across the stage, grace in her movements. She now performed like a perfected machine, each movement completed exactly as it was supposed to be. Mint imagined her old ballet partners in Japan would hardly recognize their stand-apart star now. She doubted even her dear friends from the café in Tokyo would recognize her nowadays if they passed her on the street. After all, Mint had long ago allowed the troupe to clip her wings.

 “Ready to go, mon chère?  Curtains go up in five minutes.”

Mint turned from the painted reflection. The mirror did not reflect her face. The reflection was wrong. Her body was wrong. It did not matter. She was what she needed to be. She had created the pristine mechanical thing in the mirror of her own volition. Mint glanced over her shoulder to the visitor standing in the dressing room doorway. For the dress rehearsal, she doubted the need for such a punctual call to the stage, but she knew what the instructors would say: _You must face each practice as if it is your only performance in front of a full audience._ The woman in her doorway came up behind her, resting the heels of her palms carefully on Mint’s face so as not o smudge the makeup job. She turned Mint’s head back to the reflection in the mirror, back to the face that was not her own. “Ah! Beautiful!” she exclaimed, meeting Mint’s eyes through the mirror.

Mademoiselle Jeanne was tall like an Amazon, and built with the muscle of a professional dancer and fight all in one. She looked more like a martial artist than a ballerina, but the contours of her face and her skills on the stage were enough to assure any skeptic of her rightfully earned success on the stage. Mademoiselle Jeanne was a talented ballerina of unmatched skill. She was a genius of physical movement. She had a strong will and an unwavering desire to succeed. She wore her deep brunette hair mercilessly pulled into a braided bun. She held her spine upright and straight, her weight perfectly centered upon her pointed toes during demonstration. Her leotard had no wrinkles. Her tutu had no crushed sections. All in all, she was a naturally flawless representation of the troupe’s desired perfection, except for her face.

Her ballet career ended the night a drunk driver crashed into her car in an intersection just outside the downtown area. Her wrist broke, and her ankle twisted, but both injuries healed cleanly and quickly. However, the damage done to her face left Mademoiselle Jeanne with nasty curling scars across her cheekbones and the right side of her face. The scars crushed her confidence and she retired from the stage. She returned to instruct the students of the ballet school on the troupe’s personal request. Though she ran a taxing regimen and reminded them all of how easily a ballerina could fall from grace, Mademoiselle Jeanne was adored by all her students. She worked individually with a select few ballerinas in whom she could see special talent and determination. Mint was one of these favorites.

“Merci bien, Mademoiselle Jeanne,” Mint replied with a picture-perfect smile. The woman winked, crushing together her long, makeup spackled eyelashes. The movement connected a scar on her cheek to the one on across her forehead, creating an elegant curling half-heart. Mademoiselle Jeanne’s dignified, cherry painted lips broken to reveal a full set of perfectly straight, white teeth that shone like gemstones. Mint thought the woman’s appearance was music in physical form, and when she danced, her body transformed into art. The cheeky smile matched her personality perfectly. It was a candid expression, reserved for only Mademoiselle Jeanne’s favorites. Mint in turn blushed under the attention. Her approval was to be treasured. The woman was powerful and magnificent, and she announced it without speaking a word. Having her respect and support was a powerful thing as well. She was a warrior, an Amazon, a legend on the stage. Everyone loved her, facial scars or no.

Mint had fallen in love with a performer once before. Se fell in love with the majesty with which her limbs moved, the path of her long, silky hair as it fanned around her, the fluidity of her movements. It was her first love, though her feelings were not reciprocated. Tragically, her first love and she parted ways to pursue individual careers, and Mint speculated that she and Mademoiselle Jeanne would similarly part ways one day. It would be a needless risk to entertain a temporary fancy that would amount to nothing. However, Mint suspected if there were a person who could replace her first love in her heart, that person would certainly be Mademoiselle Jeanne. The admiration she felt for the woman could be described as nothing short of love.

Perhaps due to her nerves that Mademoiselle Jeanne would discover her true affections, Mint often felt conflicted around the woman. More than that, the animal instinct that coursed through her veins warned her to be wary for reasons Mint could not guess. It was her best estimation the warning was born of memories of blue eyes the same hue as Mademoiselle Jeanne’s eyes.  Years previously, Mint came face to face with true power, an alien named Deep Blue. Unstable and godlike, his personal goals were steadfast delusions of grandeur. Mint often slept fitfully since the final battle against the alien would-be invaders. Mint would awaken in a cold sweat, Deep Blue’s cold, merciless eyes imprinted on the back of her eyelids. The dreams frightened her, like a warning the defeated alien leader would somehow rise into her life again. Mademoiselle Jeanne’s eyes were the same shade of blue, and though they were not lacking in compassion and human decency as Deep Blue’s eyes were, the similarity was unnerving. Mint’s attraction to Mademoiselle Jeanne only made the similarity all the worse.

Mint brushed invisible dust from her leotard front. Unlike Mademoiselle Jeanne, Mint had more trouble keeping her leotard clean and wrinkle free. Doubts started to crowd her thoughts again. She could not compete with natural skill like Mademoiselle Jeanne, and even as the woman retired from the stage, Mint could not fill the opening she left. The way Mademoiselle Jeanne danced, she practically flew across the stage in a flurry of emotions as if her will to dance lifted her from the floor and weakened the hold of gravity. Her tow tips were the only weak connection she maintained with the Earth below her, threatening to float away if she lifted away for too long. If she wished it, Mademoiselle Jeanne could likely levitate to the end of a performance. Mint simply could not compete with her mechanical movements. Mint used to love the sensations of the twirls and the jumps—the closest she could get to flying with her feet on the ground. Even so, she was not so self-possessed to assume she could mimic Mademoiselle Jeanne’s flight.

If tonight was like any other dress rehearsal, there would be no less than nine components to fail, fall through, or break before the night was over. However, tonight’s performance was not like any other, Mint reminded herself. This show was _her_ show. She did not need to mimic Mademoiselle Jeanne’s movements, but to steal the show with her own flight. The time had come to show her true talents. This show would make or break her prospects for a future on the stage. Scouts for different professional troupes would look at this performance and decide whether she handled the responsibility of a lead role with grace or if she floundered. Mademoiselle Jeanne had worked with her all this time, preparing her for this show, and she would deliver as expected. This show would be special, and she would be ready to fly on opening night.

“Are you ready?” Mademoiselle Jeanne asked conspiratorially. Her hand delicately touched Mint’s hips. Mint paused a moment, her skin tingling where Mademoiselle Jeanne brushed her through the leotard. Beneath her makeup, Mint’s cheeks had flushed. The minute movement sent electricity down her spine. Mint leaned into the woman’s hold some. The other ballerinas would jump on her nervousness and do all in their power to knock her from the lineup in hopes of furthering their prospects, so Mint tried to absorb some of Mademoiselle Jeanne’s power, her control. With the woman manning her supports, Mint knew she could succeed. Mint smiled, a natural tug at the corners of her mouth, and nodded decisively.

She could hear the clamor outside the dressing room as the other dancers hurried into place. Surely, Mademoiselle Jeanne could have gone to cheer on any of her selected ballerinas to give them last minute tips, but she had chosen to visit Mint before the start of the show. Her quiet support boosted Mint’s confidence three-fold. She would give a performance Mademoiselle Jeanne could be proud to have guided. Mint would be sure of it. She could almost feel her wings flutter against her shoulder blades. How she longed to fly again. how she longed to show Mademoiselle Jeanne how she could soar.  

The rehearsal began more or less without a hitch – an uncommon occurrence. In fact, everything ran smoothly and as it should until things fell apart catastrophically. The stage’s main light gave barely a creak before it crashed down to the stage below. The electric cabling fell in turn, sending fiery sparks across the floor. The ballerinas yelled as they jumped out of the way. For a moment, Mint froze in middle stage. The vision of a monster—a Frankenstein creation of multiple beasts—fluttered before her eyes. Mint had not seen a real chimera in years, you did not fight alien monsters for a time in your childhood and quickly forget them or the destruction they caused. Mint felt light headed. The project had ended. Tokyo Mew Mew disbanded because no further threat that required their response could be located. The team finished cleaning up the chimeras left behind. The job was finished, but the shadows of chimeras still haunted Mint’s subconscious. Though she moved on with her life and moved across continents, this was not the first time Mint conjured a chimera from her imagination. As always, the fleeting projection appeared solid, real in space as though it were truly present. She created these visions most often when she was under heavy amounts of stress. Her animal instincts were on high alert, searching out the threat her mind conjured. 

In nearly no time at all, Mint was certain the monster existed only in her mind. The half moment delay this distraction caused her was critical to her reaction time. Whille she stood there, locked in a momentary conflict of fight-or-flight, the main light came crashing down. The sound of cries and shouts replaced the calming tones of the pit orchestra’s instruments that played moments before. The theater was plunged momentarily into sudden and complete darkness. Mint had only enough time to throw her arms protectively around her head as the light fell to the stage, tailing its sparking chords like whips. The sounds barely registered to Mint’s ears. Everything hurt. The overhead theater lights switched on throughout the theater. The stagehand who opened the curtains reached Mint first, though he hesitated a second before trying to move the equipment off her. The director and the instructors ran to her side. Together the men freed her. Mint could barely comprehend their questions, her head feeling heavy and the effort to translate their words feeling unimportant.

“Est-elle consciente?”

“Pouvez-vous sentir votre corps?”

“Peux-tu bouger?”

“Appelle une ambulance!”

Mint blinked up at the instructors, their words washing over her incoherently. French was such a beautiful language filled with beautiful sounds. Pain shot through her body, though she could not initially identify the source. Everything hurt, but some parts more than others. She felt like a gigantic bruise. One of the instructors spoke again. Mint latched onto the voice, following it to an artistically marred face.

“Ses jambes! Ses jambes! A-t-elle cassé une jambe?” Mademoiselle Jeanne asked urgently. The woman’s words filtered slowly formed meaning in Mint’s ears. Her leg? What was Mademoiselle Jeanne saying about her leg? As Mint focused on the area, a sort of pained numbness blossomed from her lower right leg. The edges of her vision blurred as the implications hit her. A leg injury was not something she could afford, especially not so close to opening night. A ballerina collapsed by her side—a fury of fluffy tutu—and grasped her hand firmly. The dancer spoke rapid French that Mint did not bother translating. The hand that grasped her was warm, and in the moment, that comfort was all that mattered. Focusing on the warmth, Mint began disentangling herself from the feeling in her leg. Hands from all sides manipulated her into a sitting position, dull throbbing aches accompanying. Her vision darkened on the edges, her eyes losing their focus. Her head throbbed. She was off balance and tried to lay down again. The warm hand tightened slightly as the hands from all sides kept her seated.

“Commotion cérébrale?”

 Someone was talking on the phone. Mademoiselle Jeanne was talking to her. The ballerina holding her hand stroked Mint’s knuckles with her thumb while she brought her other hand to pet Mint’s hair reassuringly. Mint could not focus. It had been a long time since Mint had felt so beaten down. She closed her eyes for a moment.

 

When Mint awake again, the first thing she noticed was the quiet, so different from the commotion of shouts and discussion that clouded the air before she lost consciousness. Apart from a regular, soft beeping, a reassuring silence surrounded her. Her whole body ached. The ache ran deep down in her bones that were already worn thin from hard practice. Her head throbbed. Her arms complained. Her right wrist tingled uncomfortably. Mint had likely sprained it. She remembered throwing up her arms as the main light came down on her, but she hoped the damage was not bad. Mint bit the inside of her cheek in frustration. Her first performance, not even yet to opening night, ruined by unsecured lighting equipment. Though, she supposed she was lucky all the same. Before she lost consciousness, Mint remembered Mademoiselle Jeanne talking about her leg. Fear set her nerves on fire. A leg injury could knock her off the stage entirely. All her hard work for nothing because of happenstance. Mint gasped—quick and shallow—as she focused on her right leg first. With her right wrist hurt, it made sense that her right leg might be similarly damaged. The muscles and bones protested strongly, but they moved as instructed. Taking a deep breath, Mint lay back before trying her left leg as well. The muscles and bones of her left leg protested louder than the right, but they too moved. However, as she pointed her toe, a sharp pain broke through the ache, bringing tears to her eyes. All the same, Mint sighed in relief.

Her ankle was sprained, not broken. She was injured, but not damaged. Her body could still perform once she rested a while. She only needed a brief vacation. No, not a vacation. The ballerinas never came back from vacations. For lack of a better phrase, Mint settled on “time off”. She only needed some time off to recover, but then she would be back and twirling in center stage again. She would not be so lucky to return to finish this show—her first show as a lead. Unwished, she thought of the bitter ballerinas who she beat for the leading role. She imagined them talking smugly to the instructors about who would be replacing her for opening night.

Caity was her understudy, and so the role would surely fall to her in the event she was not similarly injured in the lighting equipment fiasco. The dancers generally liked Caity much more than they liked Mint, though Mint could never definitively determine why. She imagined it had something to do with Mint’s success despite her limited years with the troupe. Caity had been dancing for the school’s troupe a whole two years longer than Mint had been, and so her accomplishments might be viewed as better earned by the other dancers—most of whom were not welcoming of Mint’s natural talent. If Caity stepped up to fill the lead role, it would cause a domino shift in the line up for the performance. Mint had almost no doubt someone affected by that domino shift could be found responsible for loosening the securing bolts of the main light. It would not be the first time one of the ballerinas on the troupe resorted to such an act of sabotage. The last time something of the sort happened, a senior dancer already signed to a professional troupe, Mademoiselle Clarice, broke her fibula and sprained her knee after being struck by a falling piece of the set. The injury ended her dancing career as even after healing her legs were too weak for the poses. Clarice had taken the matter to court, but the investigation could not find incriminating evidence to pin the accident on one person, and in the end, the case was dropped.

Mint had gotten off lucky with a sprained ankle. A sprained ankle should heal fully given the right amount of time. She would not be off her feet for long. She could work past the aches. She could push her body just a bit further. She could cover the bruising with makeup until it healed properly. Mint had come so far on her own efforts, after all, and a minor injury would not keep her grounded. Yet, another part of her longed for the excuse. Mint had not taken a break from the rigors of the stage for a long time. No, she could relax for a while. The stage would be there waiting for her to return. She could be the only ballerina to come back from vacation and shock all her friends with her determination. She could escape the downward spiral she had fallen into, even if just for a little while. With an injury, Mint might even justify a trip home to Japan, just for a visit while she recovered. She so badly missed her dog Miki.

A soft voice called her name, pulling Mint from her thoughts. She opened her eyes fully. Many bandages wrapped her body. A particularly somber one held shut with tight metal clips secured her right wrist, and a matching one secured her left ankle, gifting her with an off sort of symmetry. The soft beeping came from a monitor that took readings from a clip that capped her index finger. The room was sterile while with no curtains over the windows to the left of the bed. The bed itself was strung with wires crisscrossing every direction, though she could not see exactly what they were connected to. She was comfortable apart from the dull ache through her full body, cushioned by pillows that also seemed to semi-successfully hold her mostly immobile.

Mint turned her attention to the concerned young woman seated to the right of the bed, her back to the door. The ballerina watched Mint apprehensively with large doll eyes. She still wore her tutu and stage makeup. Mint wondered how long she had been asleep, how long the woman had sat in her costume. Mint recognized her almost instantly from the troupe. The other ballerinas nicknamed the woman E.T. because of her disproportionately large eyes. Her real name was Erica. Through the mistiness that clouded her memory of the accident, Mint remembered Erica holding her hand while she lay on the stage before she lost consciousness. Erica was another of Mademoiselle Jeanne’s favorites. She and Mint often spent time together in their spare time or during warm up. The two had helped one another stretch prior to the rehearsal before Mint disappeared into the dressing room. Erica had an unnerving habit of observing people instead of socializing with them, which did not help to contradict her nickname. Her stare had an extraterrestrial quality to it. Nonetheless, Mint was happy it was Erica sitting with her, and it warmed her to know Erica was watching over her. 

“Erica,” Mint mumbled in greeting, pulling her face into what must have been the sorest smile she had ever delivered. She remembered the ache from when she had tried to sit up on the stage, the way her head swam with the effort, and so she chose to remain reclined, turning only her head to face her friend. Erica was a pretty person with high cheekbones, sharp eyebrows, and a symmetrical smile. The unmatched large eyes only added to her beauty when she smiled or laughed. The motion of a smile or laugh tended to naturally scrunch the corners of her eyes which overall detracted from their orb-like typical appearance. She had smooth, unblemished skin, though it did not take well to lengthy exposure to the sun. Erica was the type who burned rather than tanned. Currently under the thick stage makeup, Erica’s skin almost looked ghostly, the face of a porcelain doll. The woman had dark hair. Naturally, Erica’s hair was more an auburn tone, but she had worked to darken it for the show. Mint wondered if the instructors had not replaced Erica’s role as well to allow her to sit with her and observe her condition with her doll eyes.

The woman’s features twisted with a bit of anxiety, leaning closer as if Mint were about to croak her dying words. Mint risked shimmying up the pillows so that she was sitting more than reclining. She lifted her left arm—her good arm—reaching for Erica’s warm hand. Her arm felt like lead. Erica reached out and carefully clasped her warm fingers around Mint’s uninjured hand. Both Mint’s motion to reach her, and Erica’s motion to accept the offer seemed too slow to Min. Dimply, she wondered if she had been drugged to kill some pain. Her body definitely looked painful, but she couldn’t quite judge how much pain she should probably be feeling. Erica would know, Mint was sure. She could imagine Erica silently watching the doctors as they worked on the bandages and administering any medication, her orb eyes setting them just a little on edge. Instead of asking if she were given drugs, Mint minutely nodded toward Erica’s face. “You’re still in your makeup.”

Erica laughed softly, her cheeks scrunching up, the apples pronounced, her eyes momentarily made smaller. Mint had always liked Erica’s voice whether she was talking or laughing. It was melodic without actively attempting to be. The rhythm of her tones brought movement to mind. Hearing the laughter, Mint could see in her mind’s eye the way Erica could twist and glide across the stage, her reddish hair loose around her shoulders complimenting a soft pink leotard, or pinned into a neat bun a top her head contrasting brilliantly with the creamy tones of her leotard and her skin. Erica had a way of starting her movements in her neck, twisting her head to the side before her body twirled to follow. Mint could see what Mademoiselle Jeanne saw in Erica. Her talents were maybe a little unrefined, but there was so much potential in her innate abilities.

“I’m relieved you’re awake,” Erica murmured in return, her voice quiet. Everything Erica did was done quietly and deliberately. Coupled with her melodic voice, Erica’s quiet words really made you want to listen. “Sometimes people don’t wake up when they are hit on the head like that,” she continued. The concern was clear in her large eyes. Mint did not doubt Erica had considered she might not wake up, and that was a chilling revelation. Mint tried to squeeze her hand.

“What happened?” Mint asked. Erica’s smile dropped some. Her attention shifted off Mint’s face to gaze absently out the window. She seemed to be weighing options and deciding whether to tell Mint what she knew. Mint doubted her reply would be anything Mint had not already considered. When Erica turned her large eyes back to Mint’s face, they were open and full of truth.

“The instructors found evidence of tampering,” she started, her musical voice as flat as it could get. To her surprise, Mint saw something suspiciously like contempt flash through Erica’s eyes. For a moment, Mint’s heart stuttered. She had never seen the expression on Erica’s face before, and it looked odd and out of place. Erica had always been a rather forgiving person who would overlook many missteps without batting an eyelash. To see contempt on her forgiving features made Mint want nothing but to wipe the expression from her face. The revelation, as expected, did not surprise Mint. She felt as though her life was set to lead to this moment since she left Japan to study in France. She entered a high staked competition and accepted the dangers associated. Sabotage was just another part of the job. However, Mint wondered if Erica did not come to the same conclusions. By the look on her face, Mint would bet that the woman did not assume the same dangers of the job. Was she just naïve?

“I see,” Mint said cautiously. She kept her voice light, as if it were not a big deal someone could have intended her harm. Erica’s lamp-like eyes bore into Mint’s own pair of blue. It was hard to put on an act of aloofness under the scrutiny of those eyes, but Mint was a professional. “So, why do they have filling my role?”

Erica shrugged. It was unclear if she truly did not know or if she indicated that Mint should not care. She applied a little pressure on Mints hand.  Whether she knew who replaces Mint or not, the answer was not forthcoming. Mint rolled her eyes, allowing herself to slip further into the pillows at the back. Erica raised a hand tucking a loose strand of dark blue hair behind Mint’s ear. Mint melted back, her eyes sliding shut again. The last thing she saw was Erica smiling down at her, her overall demeanor affectionate. She was beautiful with her big eyes and her symmetrical smile. She giggled softly, musically. Mint realized she might have said that thought out loud. Erica was comforting and warm and Mint enjoyed her company, but ultimately, as her consciousness slipped again, Mint longed for home all the same.

*

incoming message—1:45:52 UTC

_I agree! Though, I’m not the best public speaker. Getting campus to agree to it will probably be difficult as well, but I can pitch the idea to some of my friends in the club all the same. My friend Aya can probably make it happen._

outgoing message—1:46:14 UTC

_I think it’s important to get the information out all the same. I am sure everyone wants to do their part in protecting the planet but might not have an idea of what they can do to help._

*

Words—5.884


	3. Pudding

Section I

.part three.

 

The key to putting on any successful show was being comfortable in the spotlight. The spotlight favored few, and those few could not shy away from it and expect results. The spotlight could be on the screen or a stage or even the city park. Where ever the spotlight was for the individual performer, they must be comfortable standing in it. The center of attention, the performer could not shy away from the spotlight or the attention of the audience. The goal was to entertain, and so the audience was crucial and needed to be engaged. Embarrassment had no place in successful performance. No person could make money from a performance if they were shy or quiet. The performer needed to be comfortable with themselves. They needed to be confident in their skills. They needed to be able to laugh at themselves and accept their own mistakes in stride. They needed to command their stage. Luckily for Pudding Fong, they had never been very shy.

Pudding pulled tight the ribbon holding their golden blonde hair tightly into a braided bun at the back of their head. It had grown long in recent years, much longer than it had been when they were younger. Enrolled at the finishing school, Pudding faced off with teachers and guides set on molding them into a satisfactorily calm and quiet young woman. Pudding, of course, resisted. They saw the light in the eyes of the other students die away as the term continued, as they were beaten down and lectured into submission to the school’s guiding rules. The dress code was strict. Their activities were strongly structured and tightly scheduled to fill most of the waking hours. The Golden Monkey Finishing School was a prison intended to break children’s wills and stubbornness when their families decided they needed reforming. Pudding’s father, Huang Fong, enrolled their oldest child as a favor to his good friend who ran the school – or at least that was the way he justified it to Pudding.

The teenager had never done well at the school. Sitting and learning household chores that Pudding already knew, proper hosting techniques, tea ceremonies, and disciplined silence did not connect well with Pudding’s energetic personality. They wanted to be up and moving about. They knew Mother-sensei – the woman who ran the finishing school – was a skilled martial artist and had met their father through martial training. However, the woman did not seem to practice martial fighting as much as martial discipline, and she frowned upon any of Pudding’s attempts to demonstrate their skills or get Mother-sensei to teach martial techniques. Her concern was on molding the children in her care into good, traditional, complacent young women who would make prized young brides and bring their families honor. Pudding had no interest in that path.

Hair pulled back and out of the way, Pudding secured the tie that held their bright, orange pants in place. They had hidden away a comfortable exercise outfit for just this occasion. They were very proud of their skill at hiding it away, since the teachers of the finishing school knew by now to go through Pudding’s belongings and confiscate such items early in the semester. Even so, Pudding smuggled in the training outfit and even some of their props to put on a show for the other students when they needed it most. That time was now. The end of the term was approaching, and the teachers had all but trained the spark from the students, intent on sending them home complacent as cows. They hoped the training would stick over the summer and so the start of term in the Fall would not require time spent on reconditioning. In any case, Pudding felt it was their duty to brighten the faces of their fellow inmates now more than ever. Their mother had always told them a smile and positive attitude could get them through any hardship. As long as Pudding kept smiling, they could bring joy to others and lessen the negativity in the world. Pudding had taken their mother’s words to heart.

The courtyard was quiet, though fairly full of students quietly discussing meaningless things, summer plans, exchanging information for classes. The yard was orderly and tranquil. Pudding grinned wide, all of their slightly pointed teeth revealing themselves to the outdoor air. Their nerves buzzed with excitement. Performances always set adrenaline rushing through their veins. It would be a good show today.

In a popping burst of flame that instantly caught the attention of everyone in the courtyard, Pudding made their entrance. They balanced atop of bicycle they had borrowed from the transportation rental in town, a mile and a half walk away from the school. They balanced with one foot on the bicycle seat. On their nose they balanced a stick that held up a spinning plate. They juggled four teacups in front of them. On their free foot they spun a special expandable hula hoop that could fold down to almost nothing for easy packing. The students and teachers in the courtyard froze, watching Pudding with gaping mouths and wide eyes, unsure of how to react. The bicycle lost momentum, teetering on its wheels. Recognizing the instability, Pudding leapt from the seat twisting in the air tossing the hoop and plate high above them.

They did a flip in midair, never once losing rhythm of the teacups they juggled. Landing on one foot, Pudding caught the stick with it’s still spinning plate on their forehead. Sticking out their open leg, Pudding also caught the hoop again. Their audience clapped in awe. With expert skill, Pudding flipped the hoop into the air again, this time slipping it over their head and around their waist where they continued to spin it without losing the cups or the plate. The audience gasped. The reactions fueled Pudding’s antics. They shifted the hoop again to their left arm. They bounced the stick and plate off their forehead and into their right hand. They left hand kept up the juggling cups. Pudding raised on one leg again, bending forwards until their torso was parallel to the ground. A few students giggled and cheered. A few teachers moved closer.

Keeping one eye on the nearing teachers, pudding tossed the hoop aside, followed by the stick and plate which landed perfectly in the center of the ring. Still juggling the teacups, now with two hands again, Pudding began to back up in preparation for a gymnastics routine. They flipped again, landing on their left hand, the right keeping the cups moving this time around. In a series of hops, Pudding moved about balanced upside-down, only on one hand. They switched hands to applause. They dropped both hands to the ground, dancing further away from the teachers who had stepped even closer. The cups stayed in the air, tossed by their feet. The students were going wild as Pudding run about the courtyard on their hands, occasionally throwing in a flip or a cartwheel, never once dropping a cup.

This routine took a lot of concentration. Pudding was almost unsure they would be able to complete it successfully since they had not had the time to freely practice their acrobatics in quite some time. Even if they failed, it would surely be a good laugh, and that was Pudding’s objective. The students needed joy at this school. Mother-sensei and her teachers tried to snuff it out, but Pudding would continue to defy them and their teachings to see the bright, unchecked smiles on the students faces.

Pudding turned to an acrobatic series sure to impress, moving back across the courtyard to the cheers and laughter they worked so hard to cultivate – backflip, roundoff, cartwheel, backflip, summersault, back hand spring, double flip. They lost one cup, but hardly anyone seemed to notice or mind. It was in the recovery that the street artist perfected their performance. Like a pianist who forgets a note during the concert, a street performer keeps time and does not acknowledge any missteps and the audience will not take notice. Pudding launched back into a hand spring, followed by a cartwheel. They’re shows were always amazing, the tricks seeming almost impossible to the onlookers. The show had brought in a lot of money when they performed in Tokyo Park when they were younger. People were impressed by anything they couldn’t imagine themselves doing.  It was entertaining.

And then Pudding’s momentum hit an immovable wall. The cups crashed to the ground. The audience gasped and went silent, fear seizing their vocal chords. Pudding looked down to the firm hand that held their forearm tightly. There would be no escaping that grasp. Their honey brown eyes flicked up, following the hand to the arm to the unamused face of Mother-sensei herself.

The woman was rather attractive, objectively speaking. Her jaw was sharp and strong; her cheekbones stood proudly at a catlike angle; her slanted eyes were dark and mysterious as still pools of water at midnight; her long, dark lashes fanned out alluringly; and her sleek, straight hair glimmered in the direct sunlight, so black it almost looked to have a deep blue undertone, like ink. It was a face that demanded respect and obedience. Even Pudding could be affected by it for a moment.

Mother-sensei was not amused. Her plump, pink lips turned down into a frightening frown. Her thin eyebrows creased her brow in the middle. She glared down her nose at Pudding as if the teenager were a cockroach she would squash with her boot.

“The show is over,” she announced curtly. The other students quickly dispersed, returning to their quiet activities – their heads down, gaze averted, fearful of drawing Mother-sensei’s wrath upon them as well.

Mother-sensei turned, moving calmly toward the exit to the courtyard and the teachers who gathered there. Her grip never faltered, and Pudding was forced to follow, locked in step to whatever fate awaited them.

“The monkey and I will be in my office,” Mother-sensei informed the teachers. The dismissal was clear in her clipped voice. She was angry and would not tolerate questions. The teachers shuffled away quickly, heads down just as the students had. Mother-sensei demanded respect from both the students and the faculty and none wished to cross her. Pudding watched them leave without a second glance their way as Mother-sensei dragged them out of the courtyard. Their reluctance to get involved made Pudding sick. Regardless, Pudding felt bold beyond reason. Perhaps they wanted to make a point of letting Mother-sensei know they weren’t afraid of her like all the rest. Pudding had faced and survived much worse than Mother-sensei could offer them.

“Oh no,” Pudding moaned, mocking forlorn filling their voice. They threw their head back, eyes rolling, letting their muscles go slack as if giving in to the inevitable. “Not another special ginseng tea chat in the headmistress’ office. What have I ever done to deserve that?”

Pudding watched Mother-sensei through their thick, blond eyelashes. Her jaw clenched tightly, though she revealed in no other way that she had heard Pudding speak. Both of them knew what was in store once they reached Mother-sensei’s office. They had played this routine countless times. Still, there was slightly hesitation in the way Mother-sensei held herself. After four years, she must know she would not change Pudding’s behavior, no matter what disciplinary action she enacted. Pudding knew that the woman knew. This was the game they played. Eventually, Pudding supposed, they would finally determine which of them was truly more stubborn, unrelenting, and untrainable. For a woman who sought to bring her students to heel, Mother-sensei had a lot in common with Pudding. The teenager looked forward to seeing who would blink first.

*

outgoing message – 9:43:02 UTC

_All I’m saying is that you seem to have a lot of free time to spend talking to me._

incoming message – 9:47:54 UTC

_I spent a fair amount of time conversing with you, perhaps, but it does not necessarily logically follow that I am speaking to you during my free time. As we’ve discussed previously, you and I both are good multi-taskers._

outgoing message – 9:49 12 UTC

_Right, god point. I guess I should feel honored to be taking your attention away from things you should probably be focusing on instead._

*

Mother-sensei was a harsh woman whose job was to break even the strongest-willed charge under her care into submission. She used tested and true methods. She boasted a long career of turning out proper young ladies from her school without any blemished to that reputation. When her good friend Huang Fong had requested to enter his oldest child in her school for extra training, Mother-sensei though nothing of the request. Of course, he could entrust his child to her. She would transform the teenager into a perfect young woman just as with any of her other charges. She would have a perfected product to return to Huang. Yet, when the child arrived, Mother-sensei found a challenge that made her nervous her streak would finally be broken. After all, Pudding Fong had no ordinary strong will, but an unshakable instinct to persist.

Pudding’s shoulder stung smartly, though they blocked the pain from their mind. They had lived through worse than anything Mother-sensei could dish out. They would doubtlessly sport a bruise tomorrow morning, but Pudding would not let the woman know the punishments bothered them. They would not complain when the bruise developed. They would not complain about the harsh correction. Pudding suffered long enough under Mother-sensei’s watchful care to smother any urge to submit to the whipping stick and become what the woman worked so hard to shape from them. They spent too many years resilient to the training Mother-sensei and her employees enforced at the Chinese finishing school. Typically, the students enrolled were broken swiftly and quickly brought to heel, but Pudding was different – unique, powerful, and they would not be tamed by the likes of these teachers.

“Appropriate young woman knows the right time for fun and the right time to obey,” Mother-sensei droned for the thousandth time. It was nothing the blond teenager had not heard before. Mother-sensei spent years of efforts to tame them, and yet they still prevailed, unbroken. By now, Pudding expected the woman to give up, but she similarly persisted with determination that could only be respected. She had surely earned the respect and admiration others harbored for her. She had patience that could only be achieved through years of martial arts training and discipline. Of course, training or no, she was no less deserving of Pudding’s distain.

The offending trait Mother-sensei sought to force from Pudding’s personality was their boundless energy. For upwards of four years the middle-aged Chinese woman made it her personal project to train away their pep. She felt it was her responsibility to present her good friend Huang Fong with a perfected product, not some failed half-attempt of reconditioning. Having lost their mother at a young age, Huang’s children doubtlessly lacked the nurturing discipline of a mother’s example. Mother-sensei could only imagine the personalities and habits of the younger children with only Pudding as an accessible role model. Many times, Mother-sensei had expressed this concern to Huang about his children and urged him to return, but the man was stubborn. The stubbornness was apparently a hereditary trait.

Huang had once jokingly promised his disciples that anyone to win a fight against his eldest child would win the right to marry into the family and by extension inherit his dojo in Japan. One student was so bold as to take the man up on the offer, traveling to Japan hopeful and naïve. He returned humbled, his tales of Pudding’s martial ability keeping others at bay. Huang told the story to Mother-sensei in jest, but it raised a serious concern in her mind – Pudding was fast-approaching marrying age, and while the child inherited the mother’s beauty, they were hardly ready to become anyone’s young bride.

“I am glad you do not wear children’s clothing or the bad haircut any more, but you must take pride in the heart of a woman, not a child,” Mother-sensei continued. The stick came down harshly again.

Pudding rolled her eyes discretely. The motion was as much backtalk as they dared. While the teenager would have loved nothing more than to tell the woman what they thought of her lessons and sermons on _ladylike behavior,_ Pudding was not so careless as to delude themselves that the kickback for the display would be harsher than the beating. Of course, they held their ground mentally, repelling the attempts to change her behavior. It took a fair amount of skill and discipline of their own to psychologically withstand Mother-sensei’s efforts. No matter, their playful personality serves them fine before they arrived at the finishing school, and they maintained it would likely do well afterwards too, despite what Mother-sensei believed.

Even though Pudding was unhappy at the finishing school, they could not bring themselves to blame their father for the predicament. When he returned from his training, Huang was just as enthusiastic about her acrobatics and carefree attitude as he had ever been. He brought back many new techniques to share with his children, and he taught them each technique as vigorously as he would any pupil. He would laugh and joyfully insist Pudding demonstrate their acrobatics for him as a means of training Pudding’s own combative skills which required much of the same physical techniques as their act.  Pudding would happily comply, eager to show him how they grew in his absence. They guided themselves, not only teaching their siblings.

All continued pleasantly at home for many months. Huang reopened his dojo and accepted new students and challengers. He supported Pudding’s continued performances in the park, cheering their acrobatic improvements and perfected routine. Then, one day, Huang became troubled. He treated Pudding’s siblings with the same love and playfulness as always, but he had begun to harden in his interactions with his eldest child. He informed them they needed to behave with more prideful reserve now that Pudding was becoming a young woman. He claimed Pudding could not act like a child forever, they would have to settle down and marry someday. As a young wife, Pudding would be expected to behave as a woman, not a girl. The idea seemed to consume much of his attention. Next thing Pudding knew, they were packed off to Mother-sensei’s finishing school in China. 

Pudding never did well with the rules of the finishing school. Their well-made Chinese-style martial arts suit was taken and replaced by acceptably feminine silk dresses. Their short braids were yanked out and left to hand in blond curls Pudding was now expected to upkeep and manage. Rather than run about, they were expected to sit perfectly still through days of passive housekeeping lessons – cooking, cleaning, Chinese tea ceremony, embroidery – lessons Pudding already understood through first-hand experience. They were expected to stay silent and keep their opinions to themselves. All the rules constricted the behaviors and attitudes of the students trapped within the walls, sentenced to the finishing school by their families. The rules were a challenge to which Pudding rose.

Time after time, the energetic teen was berated and beaten for disobeying instruction. Pudding attempted to cause disorder and mayhem by performing in the courtyards; teaching acrobatics to their fellow inmates; suggesting the other students speak their minds and reject the lessons; and worst of all, Pudding wore their hair braided, hid pants and shorts in their room which they wore sporadically to give Mother-sensei a headache despite repeated warnings to dress in accordance with the school’s dress code. Mother-sensei and her teachers sought to work out the undesirable aspects of Pudding’s personality. They lectured, assigned extra chores, confined Pudding to their room for days at a time, and lashed them repeatedly in the off-chance the lessons would permeate if delivered by physical means.

Yet, Pudding remained unbroken, the one student under Mother-sensei’s watchful eye who proved impossible to train. They could not be refined. Pudding’s shoulder stung sharply as the stick came down again. They could handle the pain. It was only a twinge of nerves. Pudding’s body was not in danger by anything Mother-sensei sent their way. Their housemates and friends smiled at Pudding’s antics, and that alone ensured they would endure a beating like this again as many times as possible. If their actions brought joy to people around them, Pudding would not give up their act until the day it failed to bring anyone cheer. Pudding withstood more severe beatings than this before. The blond teenager suspected even some of the teachers enjoyed the show as well, though the teachers hid their amusement. Their joy was Pudding’s motivator.

The beatings had no effect on Pudding. They were strong. Mother-sensei would not break them. It became their mantra, a promise throughout their time at the finishing school.

Pudding Fong would not be trained like a dog.

Above all, Pudding missed Tokyo. They often wondered about their siblings. Were they getting along without Pudding there to keep them in line? Maybe they would finally learn to do their own laundry, to cook their own meals in Puddings absence. Perhaps Huang took up the house chores. Pudding hoped the task had not been pushed on their baby sister Heicha as Pudding’s replacement. More likely, their younger siblings wore dirty clothes more often than not and ordered take out most nights.

Along with their siblings, Pudding missed their friends in Tokyo. They had a few acquaintances at the finishing school, never devoting much time or effort to relationship building here. However, back in Tokyo, Pudding had many friends from their job as a waitress at the frilly, maid-style café in the park. Despite their young age, they were hired and balanced the demands of the job with their responsibilities at home and their acrobat show to make spare change. At the job, Pudding did more than bus tables; they protected the Earth. The café was perfect cover for the Mew Mew Project, a science experiment to create a team of fighters empowered with the DNA of endangered species the instincts of which would help them to survive the attacks of the alien threat. There were five of them whose genetic makeup predisposed them as the perfect matches for the projects objectives. Ichigo Momomiya – the Iriomote Cat – Mint Aizawa – the Blue Lorikeet – Lettuce Midorikawa – the Finless Porpoise – Zakuro Fujiwara – the American Gray Wolf – and Pudding themselves – the Golden Tamarin Monkey.

The young teens possessed the traits of the animals, and since the onset of the project, each learned to cope and manage with the mutations. The team became like a second family to Pudding, reliably by their side when they needed the team’s support. Since the final battle with the aliens, however, Pudding lost contact with them each slowly and then all at once. Although their contact had lapsed, Pudding thought of the team often and the adventures they had together. They stood for something much larger than themselves. The fate of the Earth depended on their conviction and strength. And so, Pudding could not allow for Mother-sensei’s reprimands to stick. It was a duty to their title as Tokyo’s Mew Mews.

Pudding grit their teeth as the punishment stick came sharply down again. They needed to be ready to report when another threat arose. Some chimera monsters were left behind on the Earth following the final battle between the Mews and the aliens. Already, humans who gained control of those monsters attempted to take the world for their own. Again, Tokyo Mew Mew stood up to these humans, the Saint Rose Crusaders with the help of a new friend, Berry Shirayuki who became a member after accidentally causing the fusion of her DNA with that of the Andean Mountain Cat and the Amami Rabbit. Another time, the team was called to action again when an unknown alien attacked an island with the intention to turn the Red Data animals there into chimeras. They defeated him with the help of Ringo Akai who became a member by means of a mew aqua necklace she possessed which combined her DNA with a chimera of her pet penguin. Despite their current belief that the attacks had finally ended, given five years of calm, Pudding felt they needed to be ready in the off chance that a new threat arose again. Their animal instincts warned they could not become complacent with the apparent peace. Soon, they would be called back to the fight again.

An observable complication of the genetic mutations was the emergence of animal traits when not intended. The troublesome condition first occurred with the team leader whose cat ears and tail would pop out when she felt excited or embarrassed. Ichigo had experienced problems with the genetic manifestation early in the project, her ears and tail slipping her control and revealing themselves at inopportune moments without a full transformation. The problem had progressed so far as turning the girl fully into a black cat. The only apparent requirements for the manifestation was a speeding heartbeat.

Pudding never paid much attention to controlling the appearance of their animal traits while they worked at the café, but after enrollment in the finishing school it became lucrative to hide the anomaly, even as the happening became more easily triggered. Anger, fear, and surprise were the hardest to manage since these emotions could trigger a fight or flight response which would set off Pudding’s warrior animal genetics. Pudding did not have much difficulty controlling the abnormal changes through physical causes of a higher heartrate, such an exercise, but emotional changes always required a more focused level of concentration to keep the mutation at bay. Usually, Pudding loved their animal traits. They had first met Ichigo because they wanted animal traits for themselves to enhance their act. However, Pudding needed to keep the furry monkey ears and tail hidden when at school. They could not even imagine how Mother-sensei would respond to them, and while a small part of Pudding wanted to see the outcome, a more rational part recognized that it would be the worst idea to push their luck. They doubted the outcome would be good.

*

incoming message – 9:52:34 UTC

_Things to focus on like perhaps your biology exam in the morning?_

outgoing message – 9:54:54 UTC

_Yikes, look at you keeping tabs of my schedule. You’re not going to become a stalker, are you? Joking. I’ve been staring at this textbook and trying to find any information I don’t feel I already know, but I really do think I’m ready for the test._

incoming message – 9:56:21 UTC

_That is good. I am certain you will do well._

outgoing message – 9:57:32 UTC

_I appreciate your confidence. What percent certainty?_

incoming message – 9:58:02 UTC

_At least 98.672% certain._

*

The end of the semester could not come soon enough. It would only be a short break if Huang decided to send Pudding back yet again for the Fall semester, but the Summer pause was always welcome. Pudding would have all Summer to convince their father that the finishing school was not where they needed to be. Doubtlessly, they would need to fight the report letter from Mother-sensei, but Pudding was determined in any case. At the very least, the illicit fireworks Pudding set off in the courtyard to accent their acrobatics to celebrate the end of term would make Mother-sensei think twice about insisting they return in the new term.

Finally heading home, Pudding tilted their head down towards the floor so that their extensive looped braids swung into place, covering their ears as they walked through the security check point.  If the security personnel noticed their furry earlobes, Pudding would face a lot of trouble. They could not help the way their heart pounded, the way their blood raced through their veins. They were finally going _home_ and they could not reel in their excitement. With excitement, of course, came the emergence of their animal traits. Consistently, Pudding experienced more trouble controlling their ears than their tail in situations like this. Potentially, they spent so much energy and concentration focused on keeping the tail from popping from their waistline that Pudding neglected the ears. The tail would be more troublesome, immodestly pulling up their dress – quite an indecent display of tomfoolery, Mother-sensei would surely say on the matter.

Pudding was particularly proud of how efficiently they hid the genetic mutation during the time since the commencement of the project. The scientists had hoped the mutations would fade once the final battle completed, but it had long since been clear the mutations were here to stay. Another possibility promised the gene fusing would accelerate over time and become even more apparent, though the scientists tried to minimize concern on the matter, optimistically hoping the mutations would plateau and stabilize eventually. In Pudding’s experience, this worse outcome appeared more likely the case. Though they employed excellent control over them, their animal traits pushed to emerge far more often than before. With each partial transformation, the traits seemed to grow more severe. The fur concerned Pudding, though they supposed they had not yet experienced transforming fully into a monkey the way Ichigo had transformed into a cat on numerous occasions. The problem was still manageable and that was the important fact. Regardless, Pudding hoped this Summer they would be able to contact the scientists or their old friends to give a report and see if the others were experiencing the same changes.

No, more than hope, Pudding _knew_ they would contact the others this Summer. Pudding had a plan, and they would certainly see it through. It was far past time that they return to their job, or at least do research into whether or not the café was still operational. Additionally, with Pudding holding a responsible job, Huang would have a harder time justifying another semester at the finishing school. Pudding would show him just how responsible and grown up and serious they could be. There was no reason to send them back to that place, and they would be sure he saw those traits. They would be sure the scientists addressed the new animal traits as well.

The male security guard smiled kindly as Pudding gathered their carry-on baggage. Pudding returned a polite smile of their own, turning their eyes away strategically, careful to avoid eye control – the goal was to appear shy, not suspicious. Nowadays, when their animal traits began to emerge, Pudding’s eyes would often turn the same orange as when they were Mew Pudding. They could not risk the guard’s reaction to the odd coloring. They did not need him looking at them twice. Pudding was just a normal teenager traveling home; just a young person in an orange-golden dress. Certainly, there was nothing special or remarkable about them. They resisted the urge to touch their braids and check the coverage. The braids would not move and reveal their monkey ears, Pudding knew. After all, they had braided the furry tips of their ears directly into the intricately braided hoops of their now-long hair. The braids would hold. Pudding was excited.

They leaned back against a pillar, setting their bag on the ground beside them as they examined the directional signs above to find their gate number. The flight home would not be long, which suited Pudding just fine. They did not particularly enjoy flying. That was more Mint’s area of expertise. Nonetheless, it was a necessity, and so Pudding would endure it, even if the pressure changes made them feel sick. Their gate would be at the end of the terminal. Pudding sighed, calmly picking up their bag. Standing straight again, Pudding felt it – the soft tickle of fur on their legs.

They glanced around to check that no one had taken particular notice of them. No one had. Experimentally, the blond teenager flexed the tail, attempting to remove as much contact between the tail and the dress as possible. They had carelessly allowed their discipline to slip. Huang would be so disappointed. Pudding giggled at the thought. As if hiding animal characteristics was a thing Huang would have anything to say about. They shifted their carry-on bag behind them, so that the bag bounced on their butt as they moved. Across the hall, Pudding saw the little illuminated RESTROOM sign. It was maybe fifty feet of exposure in which they might be apprehended, their secret divulged to a magnitude of strangers. The challenge was enticing. Pudding grinned with mischievous determination before beginning the trek across the hall. They wondered if the others found themselves in situations such as this nowadays. They supposed they would need to ask once they reestablished contact with the group.

They paused between the entryways to the two restrooms – men to the right, women to the left. But which way for little monkeys? They took to the left and slipped into the first stall, securely locking the door behind. They dropped the bag unceremoniously to the ground at their feet.  Finally, Pudding released their control over the tail. It bounced skyward, playfully pulling the dress up and out of place. Pudding tugged on the appendage absently. The joyful curl at the tip that they loved so much seemed to mock them. Pudding wished they had a pair of pants to wear for this trip. They could let the tail out when they wore pants, but in a dress? it wasn’t an option. They pulled on the end, trying to calm their mind and will the tail away again. It was difficult. They were a little too excited to see their family again. Heicha had written to them about a new routine she was working on. Lucha and Honcha wrote about new martial techniques they had mastered and could not wait to show Pudding. Chincha and Hanacha wrote about school and the new things they were learning. Pudding was excited to talk with them about all of it! Although Huang had sent them to the finishing school, Pudding still maintained the unchallenged position of best older sibling. Breathing exercises, that was what Pudding needed to calm their excitement. The idea of soaring through the sky in an iron tank also helped Pudding to sober up.

Pudding unlocked the stall. They splashed some water on their face at the sinks, cool and reassuring. They would soon be home. They would soon be reunited with their family and friends. The team had not seen one another for long enough, and Pudding would make sure they would not go another year separated. Their siblings would have grown significantly since Pudding left. They would make sure to acknowledge and encourage each of them.  

*

outgoing message – 9:58:46 UTC

_Hahaha! Three decimal points. Nice._

incoming message – 9:59:10 UTC

_I would show you my full calculations if I were not so busy dividing my attention between all these things demanding my focus and involvement._

outgoing 10:23:09 UTC

_Ok, just so we’re clear, I do know you just wrote out a string of random numbers to make fun of me._

incoming 10:23:32 UTC

_Perhaps, but joking aside, I truly do not believe you will have any difficulty. You are a highly capable person._

*

The airplane stood at the end of a metallic tunnel with a carpeted floor, as if the airport attempted to give such a cold place a homey feeling. It was a ridiculous attempt. Regardless, the blond teenager smiled brightly to the flight attendant just inside the airplane’s door as if nothing bothered them about flying. Once on board, Pudding found their seat easily. They reserved one next to a window, right over the left wing of the plane. A man seated in front of them helped to put their carry-on bag up in the overhead storage compartment. They settled into the seat, back straight, delicately intertwining their fingers and resting their hands in their lap. The flight was four and a half hours to Narita International Airport. The plane would be touching down before they even oriented themselves to taking off. Pudding repeated those assurances to themselves until they half believed it. Their tail wiggled out again between their legs, under their clasped hands. It fidgeted impatiently. Pudding was excited. They wanted to be home already. They wanted to see their siblings and start their summer adventures.

Pudding thought again of the possibility of meeting up with their friends from the café. The team had scattered to the corners of the world, but they had a feeling in their gut, an animal instinct that lead them to believe the old team would be back this year. It kept a bright smile on their face to imagine how everyone would have changed in their years apart. Zakuro would likely be as aloof as before. Mint would probably be particularly spoiled, doubtlessly a big ballet star by now. Lettuce would still want everyone to get along. Ichigo would likely still be clumsy and lovestruck. Aoyama would probably be mysterious, handsome and a die-hard environmentalist as always.

Pudding had not thought about the team’s opponents-turned-almost-friends, the aliens, for some time. Even so, Pudding’s thoughts turned to them now.  How were they doing? Did they restore their planet with Mew Aqua? Did they think about the Earth every now and then still? Did they remember Tokyo Mew Mew? As the aircraft began to turn onto the runway, Pudding caught a movement in the corner of their eye – above the wing, a ripple in the air that brought back memories of pigtails they hadn’t seen for years. A pout that hid a smile; arms crossed tightly in stubbornness; fists that pulled Pudding’s hair while they returned the favor.

Pudding gazed out the window as the ground fell away and the plane took to the air. The fighting had not been all bad memories, but with the final battle came the logical end of budding friendships. Pudding had lost connection with their alien friends’ storylines when they too to space in their ship to deliver the miraculous Mew Aqua to their home. Pudding would never know if they were successful; never know if they faced repercussions for returning home with the news their leader was dead, destroyed by the Earth’s defenders; never know if the three agents would move on from the battle as the Tokyo team had done, or how they would even go about doing that. Pudding wondered if their friend, similarly the youngest of the alien team, even thought about them and wondered how Pudding moved on after the fight. What would he think of Pudding now, sitting demurely with folded hands and long, carefully braided hair? What would he think of them sitting in the uncomfortable, fitted dress that failed to accommodate their tail? Pudding giggled to themselves. There was no doubt their friend would pull their hair and stick out his tongue, proclaiming Pudding had definitely not gotten any cuter over the years.

Of course, the ripple of air over the wing was merely the effect of engine heat interacting with cooler air; and yet, something hopeful tugged at Pudding’s heart. They entertained the possibility the ripple had been caused by something entirely different. With a bright smile, Pudding looked forward to how the Summer would play out this year.

*

Words: 6,578


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